A Friend
by sleepy mind
Summary: 'He laughed at himself for having the tendency of making friends with strange people.' John lost his good friend. AU


I stumbled upon my path. It was awfully cold in London, which was something I had not predicted. I wandered around without a thought to hail a cab. A stupid thought, indeed.

However, this was all lost when my eyes met a pair of blue ones. I managed to stutter a thank you to the man and smiled. He offered me his hand and introduced himself, 'John Watson.'

'Emily.' I replied, his eyes straying to my short figure before smiling kindly.

'I have a spare room back in my flat. My landlady would love you,' he said. 'Here, let me help you with that.'

I stared at him with shock; how did this man know? I had not uttered a word about myself with an exception of my name! Have I met him somewhere I couldn't recall? Worse yet, have this man been following me? Questions swarmed all over my brain, the worst possibilities popping out. He noticed my questioning look and chuckled.

'Don't be alarmed. I'm not here to harm you; I'm offering you a place to live.'

'How-?'

'Later. Now come along.'

* * *

><p>There was a silence during our journey. I wouldn't call it uncomfortable. In fact, it was pleasant. The man, John, seemed to have known the cabbie for quite a while. I looked outside at the sight of London's nightlife. I knew next to zero about England, only stories I gathered from my relatives about London being 'ridiculously brilliant' as they would say.<p>

I gave John a speculative look, previous questions still planted firmly on my mind. He saw this and smiled.

'You don't wear a scarf, obviously unaware of London's cold weather meaning this must be your first time arriving here—welcome, by the way—and you are carrying a portmanteau too. Your hair is quite messy, and no women in their right mind would leave their house looking like that, concluding you must have been wandering around. But for what? A hotel? Or a place to live? Your portmanteau is large so either a long stay or starting a new life in London.'

I was speechless! This man in incredible! 'That was… extraordinary!'

He chuckled though his eyes were reflecting sadness. Did I say something wrong?

'We're her', Dr. Watson,' the cabbie informed heartily. 'It's been 'while since then.'

'It has, Alan,' said John, alighting from the cab. 'Come, Emily. Mrs. Hudson would love to meet you.'

As I thanked the cabbie for helping me with my portmanteau, a woman came out from a door. She was short and lively, a sweet welcoming smile graced her face and I could not help but to smile. 'What's your name, dear?'

'Emily.' I answered.

'She's looking for a flat, Mrs. Hudson. She'll be sharing.' John explained.

I instantly flushed as Mrs. Hudson ushered both of us inside. Sharing? I wasn't informed about that!

'Pardon—'

John laughed when he spotted my face. 'Oh, don't worry. There are two rooms. It's inappropriate for a man to ask a woman to share a room.'

We went upstairs to the living room. I marvelled at the sight. There were two bookshelves, a sofa, two armchairs near the fireplace, and two desks. It wasn't as large as I expected but it felt homey. I sauntered towards the fireplace, seeking for warmth. John said to help myself as he offered to take my portmanteau to my room.

'Thank you, John!' I yelled then heard a 'you're welcome' echoing.

I stood shakily to sit on the armchair when I spotted a skull on the fireplace. Strange. Why did John keep a skull? What's his job anyway? Was it a doctor? The cabbie did call him Dr. Watson.

'Ah, I see you've found the skull.'

I jumped. 'You scared me.'

He smiled. 'Please put that back.'

His tone was demanding, cold, and yet a tint of sadness was evident as well. I wanted to ask so many things to him. He was a kind mystery, you see. However, my heart opposed the idea of questioning. So I concluded from his scattered stuff, that he was merely a detective.

* * *

><p>A week had passed. No meaningful words were exchanged. I had no guts to ask, though I did conclude something; he was no ordinary detective.<p>

John Watson was no rude man. He was the kindest, most tolerant person I've ever met in my entire lifetime. I often explored our flat while he was out with his case and more questions flooded my mind.

He did not look like the type to play a violin, yet a violin was placed on top of the drawers. There's also a laptop and a pink phone inside the top drawer but both were not his. I knew his laptop was always sitting on the dinner table and his phone was always stored in his pocket. Who owned this? I figure at first it was a woman, but no woman would make a strange website entitled 'A Science of Deduction'. There were a dark blue scarf and a dark long coat too. Those two clothing obviously did not belong to John or any woman!

At Monday, I placed all the things I'd found on a small coffee table. I waited for John to come home. He did promise me a hot chocolate and Chinese. I wrapped myself with a duvet and began thinking.

Why would John keep things like these? Do these belong to a friend? Supposedly if it is, it must be male. Mrs. Hudson did say John had a flatmate before me. Maybe these belonged to the said flatmate? Why didn't he take it? Where did he go? What had happened? Why did the flatmate leave? John was not a nightmare to live with. And why did the flatmate leave his long coat, scarf, and phone? A long coat and scarf I can understand, but the phone?

I took off the pink silicone and examined it. The phone was brand new. Not a scratch. The flatmate took care of the phone well. Oh! There're pictures too….

* * *

><p>'Em! I have—'<p>

'Bloody hell!'

John had this bad habit of increasing people's heart rate to an unhealthy limit, but maybe that was not the cause of the departure of the mysterious flatmate. I turned to him, expecting a smile or a remark. Instead I saw him standing there lifeless.

'John?' I called.

He gained himself and composed an obviously forced smile. I frowned. John never did that. He placed the Chinese I wanted on the dinner table while I was still contemplating whether to ask or to just put these back into the drawer. Why am I so afraid of asking? It was no harm asking a question, yes?

'John,' I called again. 'Do you mind if I ask you something?'

'No.' He answered hoarsely.

'Did you have a flatmate before me?'

I heard him sighed and he walked to the fireplace. After a moment, he sighed again and took the skull. He turned to me and threw the skull to me. I raised my brow and he just sat tiredly.

'I did. I had a… flatmate,' he answered. 'That skull and those things belonged to him.'

'I've assumed so,' I said. 'What happened?'

'He left.'

His tone was flat, as if he was hitting me with a heavy fact. If the flatmate left, he obviously didn't see what a wonderful flatmate John is! But why—

Oh.

John smiled sadly.

How can I be so insensitive?

'He was an extraordinary man. A consulting detective. The only one in the bloody world. He invented the job, he said,' John said with a bitter laugh. 'Do you remember what you said when I deduced things about you?'

'Yes,' I answered. 'Extraordinary.'

'That was my response to his deduction. I think it was fantastic. Brilliant!' John said in bitter excitement. 'That man was an absolute nightmare to live with. He always had experiments scattered everywhere… in the fridge, in the microwave, on the table….

'He always played his violin at ungodly hours. He played difficult pieces, ones I didn't recognise. He always wore that long coat and that dark blue scarf when we're on a case. If you look inside the coat, I put his tiny magnifier there.'

I fumbled through the coat, and true to his word; a tiny magnifier was found. I turned to him, beckoning him silently to continue.

'The pink phone was the start of all the shenanigans….'

I listened to his tale, all the goods and bads of a consulting detective. He seemed to be an interesting man. And I can tell John is fond of his previous flatmate. He, I conclude, can be quite cold but he did things for good, unlike the evil Moriarty. That man had wrecked morals.

John told me that his flatmate died because of the explosion. He lost a plethora amount of blood and that John was upset at himself for letting him die.

'He did it for you.' I said.

'That's just… idiotic.' He laughed bitterly.

Then, something hit me. 'You never told me his name.'

He smiled. 'I'll introduce you tomorrow,'

I smiled brightly.

'And you can keep his things.'

I looked at the flatmate's things. I turned to John. 'No.'

'Why?' He asked.

I paused. 'He misses you too, John.'

I got up and placed all of the flatmate's belongings back to the top drawer but I left the pink phone behind. I smiled at John's confusion.

'He misses you too, John.' I repeated and left the confused man.

* * *

><p>When I reached my room, my father was calling me. I'm guessing he wanted a report.<p>

'Afternoon, father.'

'Hullo, Emily. Have you met him?'

'Uncle Sherlock misses him, father.'

My father gave a hearty laughter. 'I'm glad he had found a good friend.'

I smiled, knowing it was always more than just 'a good friend'.

* * *

><p>John raised a brow at Emily's last words.<p>

_He misses you too, John._

'_What the bloody hell does that mean?'_

The ex-military doctor took the phone and fumbled with it. He looked closely and nothing was different. He huffed. Emily could be strange when she wanted to be. He laughed at himself for having the tendency of making friends with strange people.

Deciding that he was bored to death, he opened every application available in the phone. He even played games too. He never knew that the game called 'Angry Birds' would be such a fun one.

Then he found this note:

_Deduce my feelings about John?_

_I cannot deduce my own feelings, but I can express them._

_John is a comrade, a colleague. A man who is loyal to me when no one else dares to be and who I can rely on to support me should I need it. He brings out the best of my ability._

_John is very special, because among all my colleagues, he is the only one who would consider himself my friend._

_SH_

Needless to say, John's first drop of tears long after Sherlock's death fell that night.

* * *

><p>AN: First time is first time. I haven't watched Sherlock 2 so excuse the poor reason for Sherlock's death. The note came from here: http :/ aguidetodeduction . tumblr . com / post / 11528717084 (just remove the spaces). I have no idea why the bloody hell I wrote this. :|


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